And almost immediately, an update...FatBoy is up in Oz now, doing the orange-is-the-new-black thing. No parole date, thank goodness, so if things go well he'll die in there. The doss cunt also moved back to Magna, by the way. It's a good place for his ilk.

Alpha Loser Update!

Seems like fat, violent, non-white Roland Marquez got popped again! The fat piece of shit beat up another woman, raped her, and held her against her will for a week. I hope the dirty motherfucker gets raped this time around. He’s a two- or three-time loser now, so they may actually keep the dirty spic there until he gets shanked for trafficking B-grade cigarettes. Man, I hate that fucker!

Alpha Loser Update! Seems like fat, violent, non-white Roland Marquez got popped again! The fat piece of shit beat up another woman, raped her, and held her against her will for a week. I hope the dirty motherfucker gets raped this time around. He's a two- or three-time loser now, so they may actually keep the dirty spic there until he gets shanked for trafficking B-grade cigarettes. Man, I hate that fucker!

Best Restaurant Review Ever

GUY FIERI, have you eaten at your new restaurant in Times Square? Have you pulled up one of the 500 seats at Guy’s American Kitchen & Bar and ordered a meal? Did you eat the food? Did it live up to your expectations? Did panic grip your soul as you stared into the whirling hypno wheel of the menu, where adjectives and nouns spin in a crazy vortex? When you saw the burger described as “Guy’s Pat LaFrieda custom blend, all-natural Creekstone Farm Black Angus beef patty, LTOP (lettuce, tomato, onion + pickle), SMC (super-melty-cheese) and a slathering of Donkey Sauce on garlic-buttered brioche,” did your mind touch the void for a minute? Did you notice that the menu was an unreliable predictor of what actually came to the table? Were the “bourbon butter crunch chips” missing from your Almond Joy cocktail, too? Was your deep-fried “boulder” of ice cream the size of a standard scoop? What exactly about a small salad with four or five miniature croutons makes Guy’s Famous Big Bite Caesar (a) big (b) famous or (c) Guy’s, in any meaningful sense? Were you struck by how very far from awesome the Awesome Pretzel Chicken Tenders are? If you hadn’t come up with the recipe yourself, would you ever guess that the shiny tissue of breading that exudes grease onto the plate contains either pretzels or smoked almonds? Did you discern any buttermilk or brine in the white meat, or did you think it tasted like chewy air? Why is one of the few things on your menu that can be eaten without fear or regret — a lunch-only sandwich of chopped soy-glazed pork with coleslaw and cucumbers — called a Roasted Pork Bahn Mi, when it resembles that item about as much as you resemble Emily Dickinson? When you have a second, Mr. Fieri, would you see what happened to the black bean and roasted squash soup we ordered? Hey, did you try that blue drink, the one that glows like nuclear waste? The watermelon margarita? Any idea why it tastes like some combination of radiator fluid and formaldehyde? At your five Johnny Garlic’s restaurants in California, if servers arrive with main courses and find that the appetizers haven’t been cleared yet, do they try to find space for the new plates next to the dirty ones? Or does that just happen in Times Square, where people are used to crowding? If a customer shows up with a reservation at one of your two Tex Wasabi’s outlets, and the rest of the party has already been seated, does the host say, “Why don’t you have a look around and see if you can find them?” and point in the general direction of about 200 seat? What is going on at this new restaurant of yours, really? Has anyone ever told you that your high-wattage passion for no-collar American food makes you television’s answer to Calvin Trillin, if Mr. Trillin bleached his hair, drove a Camaro and drank Boozy Creamsicle? When you cruise around the country for your show “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives,” rasping out slangy odes to the unfancy places where Americans like to get down and greasy, do you really mean it? Or is it all an act? Is that why the kind of cooking you celebrate on television is treated with so little respect at Guy’s American Kitchen & Bar? How, for example, did Rhode Island’s supremely unhealthy and awesomely good fried calamari — dressed with garlic butter and pickled hot peppers — end up in your restaurant as a plate of pale, unsalted squid rings next to a dish of sweet mayonnaise with a distant rumor of spice? How did Louisiana’s blackened, Cajun-spiced treatment turn into the ghostly nubs of unblackened, unspiced white meat in your Cajun Chicken Alfredo? How did nachos, one of the hardest dishes in the American canon to mess up, turn out so deeply unlovable? Why augment tortilla chips with fried lasagna noodles that taste like nothing except oil? Why not bury those chips under a properly hot and filling layer of melted cheese and jalapeños instead of dribbling them with thin needles of pepperoni and cold gray clots of ground turkey? By the way, would you let our server know that when we asked for chai, he brought us a cup of hot water? When you hung that sign by the entrance that says, WELCOME TO FLAVOR TOWN!, were you just messing with our heads? Does this make it sound as if everything at Guy’s American Kitchen & Bar is inedible? I didn’t say that, did I? Tell me, though, why does your kitchen sabotage even its more appealing main courses with ruinous sides and sauces? Why stifle a pretty good bison meatloaf in a sugary brown glaze with no undertow of acid or spice? Why send a serviceable herb-stuffed rotisserie chicken to the table in the company of your insipid Rice-a-Roni variant? Why undermine a big fist of slow-roasted pork shank, which might fly in many downtown restaurants if the General Tso’s-style sauce were a notch less sweet, with randomly shaped scraps of carrot that combine a tough, nearly raw crunch with the deadened, overcooked taste of school cafeteria vegetables? Is this how you roll in Flavor Town? Somewhere within the yawning, three-level interior of Guy’s American Kitchen & Bar, is there a long refrigerated tunnel that servers have to pass through to make sure that the French fries, already limp and oil-sogged, are also served cold? What accounts for the vast difference between the Donkey Sauce recipe you’ve published and the Donkey Sauce in your restaurant? Why has the hearty, rustic appeal of roasted-garlic mayonnaise been replaced by something that tastes like Miracle Whip with minced raw garlic? And when we hear the words Donkey Sauce, which part of the donkey are we supposed to think about? Is the entire restaurant a very expensive piece of conceptual art? Is the shapeless, structureless baked alaska that droops and slumps and collapses while you eat it, or don’t eat it, supposed to be a representation in sugar and eggs of the experience of going insane? Why did the toasted marshmallow taste like fish? Did you finish that blue drink? Oh, and we never got our Vegas fries; would you mind telling the kitchen that we don’t need them? Thanks.

Camille Paglia is brilliant. Her thinking and ability to transcribe it onto the page are unsurpassed.

Awesome. Dogs are the best.

Before and after I sign good boy to my deaf dog

Why I Left Facebook

Google the title of this blog and you’ll find scores of articles about why people deactivated their Facebook accounts, all of which basically say the same (valid) things…

“Facebook is a time-suck, a distraction.”

“I have privacy or safety concerns.”

“The image-crafting that people do on Facebook leaves me depressed, feeling inadequate and unfulfilled.”

I agree with all these statements, but one thing that often gets ignored is the notion that Facebook warps people psychologically. Let me explain…

The average Facebooker builds a carefully-selected community of friends, family, and friends of friends and family. Feed preferences shape this community and Facebookers begin posting photos of their kids or their dinner, meaningless updates, meme-based platitudes and even worse, political, economic, and sociological opinions. The Facebooker’s community then “likes” or agrees with the post (or in some cases, challenges them) and the user starts believing that these posts (and therefore their opinions) matter.

They become convinced that the world actually cares that the Facebooker went drinking with friends and saw fit to take a group picture holding their libations. Or, the Facebooker’s one-year old’s smeared birthday cake all over their face and golly gee, isn’t that cute? Or, the Facebooker feels violence would end if only Joe Sixpack can’t buy a certain type of rifle. Or, the Facebooker is a compassionate intellect who was deeply affected by the [insert recent tragedy or death] and they remember their distant acquaintance with [insert recent victim(s) or celebrity], and the [insert recent tragedy or death] is really all about the Facebooker. By the way, this post usually contains the banal phrase “my thoughts and prayers…”

This phenomenon also creates, or at least exposes, a corolary problem. Most Americans never learned to think critically. They’re unaware of the pitfalls of logical fallacies. 

They fall prey to scads of biases and soggy reasoning. If challenged, they dig in and skulk away, offended. 

Other Facebookers with contrary opinions chime in and what follows is your standard rambling, off-task debate (often with name-calling) and more “likes” and supporting/dissenting opinions.

And sadly, these on-line discussions reveal that besides being intellectually lazy and gullible, most people can’t write or form cohesive arguments. Even worse, they don’t know that they are intellectually lazy and grammar retards. See, time was, most people graduated high school or college and aside from an occasional letter, never wrote another thing in their lives. Nowadays, everyone, every day, has ample opportunity to write posts, comments, emails and the like and it’s shocking how lacking peoples’ forensic and verbal abilities are. Syntax, grammer and conjugation aside, these mini-missives display a breath-taking lack of the critical thinking process mentioned above.

Was it hard for me to leave Facebook? A bit, mainly as I sat in front of the computer and needed a little break or distraction. I miss photos and stories from user groups I belonged to. There were also a handful of people who’s lives actually interested me.

But overall, I have no regrets. I have more time, better serenity, and I dislike my friends a lot less.

Apparently, my star-struck, douche of a sister-in-law ran into an NFL player (where else?) in a bar. Like most people with no self-esteem of sense of self-worth, she derives personal value through identification with objects and people. Any celebrity, even one I guarantee she had never heard of prior to that night, is opportunity for her to tell the world she's somehow important. She posts that she was "hobnobbing" with a celebrity. If this blog had a follower, that follower would note the similarity with her Vegas post about billionaires and astronauts. I'll bet she drove this poor bastard crazy with her bug-eyes, rictus grin, mania.

My self-aggrandizing sister-in-law is a philanthropist. That is, as long as she can tell the virtual world all about it. She does so much good for society, but note that at the epicenter of this post about her volunteerism, is her. No word on what the charity is (she probably doesn't even know). No pictures of her fellow do-gooders. It's all about her, the porn-star eye makeup and last but not least, her. Pathetically, Facebook is kind enough to alert us that she's with her cuckold husband and the girl that provided cover for her trysts ad infinitum. Thank God nightly that you have no contact with these people. it's a cross I bear that I wouldn't wish on the most abjectly pathetic Jerry Springer guest.

Here's another post from my horrible sister-in-law. Basically, she loves to drink, get fucked up, and post pictures of herself drinking and getting fucked up on Facebook. She's actually quite proud of her affinity for drinking and getting fucked up; she wants the world to know. The thing I love best about this picture is that she and her husband are two people away from each other. That's because they hate each other and fight constantly. It's been that way since her infidelity came to light.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I just found this one. My selfish sister-in-law did one of those "25 things about me" things on Facebook and I had a devil of a good time reading it! It's hilarious if you really know her, trust me. You'll enjoy it with a little color commentary from me... #23. What she doesn't say is that they gave a husky away. Imagine that! What kind of shallow fuck buys a puppy, invites it into their pack, and then gives it away? Also, she doesn't mention how she left her bulldog in the laundry room while they were away for the weekend, turned off the AC to save money, and killed the poor thing. Imagine what a miserable death that poor dog had. What a phony! #19. The ballet post shows her delusion. She couldn't have been a professional ballet dancer. They can't get fucked up all the time and take amphetamines. #14. Yeah she had her kids young, because she got knocked up in high school. When I met first met her, the youngest was about four and I didn't realize that the tot even belonged to my trashy sister-in-law. The kid spent all summer and every weekend with the grandparents while Carmela drank and shopped. #3. Even I'm not cold enough to go into this one on-line. Not yet, at least. Oh, what the hell...she has affairs and takes her kids on the dates with her. It's preposterous, and hard to believe, but she uses her kids as cover for her dalliances and even threatens the youngest about ratting her out. Last summer she tried to enlist my wife's aid in one of her encounters. My wife refused, and the crazy in-law had the balls to personally attack my wife's sanity and integrity to try and deny her trysts.

My self-centered sister-in-law is also a wise philosopher. Her musings are usually based on the dopey, straight-to-video movies she favors (shallow and loud, like her). If one can wade through the poor grammar and syntax, her nonsensical posts are actually amusing. Normally, she somehow twists the movie or the experience to be about her. She'll find a way to equate herself with some attribute of the protagonist in the movie/show/book/event. She didn't do it very well here, but she did manage to brag about flying Virgin Air (upscale?) like she was a guest on Branson's private jet or something.

Every once in a while, my shitty sister-in-law doesn't post a picture of her tits or the gallons of alcohol with which she poisons herself daily. Instead, she posts something that shows the world how shallow, phony and materialistic she is. The dithering simp manages to tell the world she runs with the glitterati (not true), while bragging about her latest name-brand purchase with her credit card. She's such an empty soul, that she actually believes she can attain worthiness through brand identification. By the way, that last comment is from her poor daughter, whose model of womanhood is unfortunately my megalomaniac, shitty sister-in-law. Don't you wish your mom was like her? Are you starting to hate her now too?

By the way, in case you thought I was bullshitting in my last post, here's another picture of her with her sag-bags hanging out for the world to see while she dulls her limited wits with booze. What a pig!

I love this picture of my megalomaniac sister-in-law because it combines the two types of photos that she repeatedly posts 90% of the time (the other 10% of her posts are greeting-card philosophy memes about what a great parent she is). That is to say, Type One, which is pictures of her in a bikini, showing off her saggy, bulbous silicone udders, and...Type Two, which are pictures of her getting fucked up, drinking. She drinks daily, no doubt to simultaneously come off of the amphetamines and to numb the primordial part of her brain that realizes what an awful, selfish human being she is. I went to the beach with her a couple of years ago, unwillingly, and watched her pound a 12-pack in about three hours, smoke, brag, and scream at the top of her lungs. Wouldn't you be proud to call her "mom?"

OK, so if my last blog intrigued you, here she is. Her thin frame is relatively new, and is the result of extensive liposuction followed by about three years of heavy pharmaceutical amphetamine use. She's 44 years old with three kids (one of them is 26), all of whom, by the way, she ignores. That bleach-blond hair, which looks like it fell out of a broom, is supposed to convince you she's a twenty-something hottie instead of an over-the-hill slag trying to recapture a party-girl past she instead spent having kids. Notice also how she has her purse profiled. I wouldn't know an expensive purse from a canvas rice bag, but if you know, or are, a female, I'll bet this bag is some hoity-toity brand of purse that is supposed to make you think she has money. Anyway, if you peruse her Facebook you'll mostly see pictures she posts of herself, like this one.

My shitty sister-in-law.

My sister-in-law is probably the worst human being I've ever personally known. She's entirely selfish and materialistic, and what makes it absolutely delicious is her utter lack of self-awareness. Someone - a total stranger - could spend five minutes on her Facebook reading her posts and gleefully begin hating her. It occurred to me that it's too good to keep to myself, so I'll be posting blogs from her Facebook and giving readers the back-story and play-by-play.

Brandon Shrewsbury was the craziest motherfucker I've ever personally known. My first job out of college was as a teacher's assistant in a mental hospital for kids. Brandon was a repeat customer. Many of the kids in there were just fucked in the head from sexual abuse or depression - things like that - but Brandon was certifiably nuts. I'm talking Hollywood-crazy, like the kind of psycho you see in bad movies. When I knew him, he was about 10 or 12. He had these bulgy, zoned-out eyes and dirty-ass buck teeth. Wild, greasy, shit-brown hair that smelled like spunky socks. Lanky, goofy, and just an all around dick. I actually saw him sleeping once with his eyes open. And talk about an unpredictable, explosive temper. He was the worst kid we ever had up there. He actually spit on me once, and when I got a little rough with him, he told me he was going to rat me out. I explained, calmly, that he was a serious loser, and would go through life suffering with zero credibility. He spent a lot of time locked up in the quiet room. He was also, like most losers, stupid. Imagine my surprise when I came across this picture of the registered sex offenders list. It seems like the sick fuck is into abusing little kids and got popped. He also had an extensive shoplifting and burglary sheet dating back to the nineties, an no doubt an extensive juvenile record as well. This is a guy that you run from, and avoid at all costs. I always wondered what happened to him. He sprouted up to 6'6" but I recognize the bat-shit-crazy fucker. This is a guy that needs long-term institutionalization. I mean...this guy is a Norman Bates-type psycho.